


Call Me Good

by IneffableAlien



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Anonymous Sex, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Come Swallowing, Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Ejaculate, Glory Hole, M/M, Objectification, Oral Sex, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien
Summary: Crowley desperately needs to please a stranger, it doesn't matter who.
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 108





	Call Me Good

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, this is a LOT different from the things I usually write. First of all, I've only ever written maybe one other PWP, and secondly, I don't think I've ever posted any angst explicit sex before.
> 
> (Rereading it in the morning I want to add that it's dark. I mean, it's Pining Glory Hole Crowley so no shit but just in case you skipped the tags)
> 
> I wanted a glory hole fic and I couldn't find one. Enjoy a sad wank!

Crowley did not like feeling tempted. Others were supposed to be tempted by him. He was good at it (the best, blessit, the originator), which meant he was in control doing it. And one thing Crowley lacked in his long existence was a sense of control. Too often things had appeared to happen to Crowley, rather than as a result of real choices he made.

Right now, as it occasionally went, temptation was happening to Crowley. The angel was not directly involved; Crowley generally did not view the angel as a temptation, because Aziraphale was something Good. And if Crowley wanted some nights to drunkenly straddle Aziraphale’s lap, to plant his bony knees in either side of those plush hips, and claim his mouth with a growl and teeth suddenly too sharp, it wasn’t because Aziraphale was tempting.

It was because Crowley was Bad.

For weeks now, in the evenings (not even under the moon, when Crowley suspected that someone with self-respect might have hid their acts), Crowley had been tempted to return again and again to a building some fifteen kilometers south of his flat. He appreciated that it was not far from home yet still a fair drive from the bookshop. It was no place special, just a standard pub with two chimneys and roof shingles that had seen better days. From the outside, it might have even been charming.

Inside, it was a shithole, which was exactly what Crowley wanted (deserved).

The thread that pulled Crowley to the locale was the scent, which was also nothing special. Lust was something a demon could detect just about anywhere. There were so many places like this, plenty back in the city. But there are also so many different kinds of lust, and oh so many smells. A tumbling workplace affair of passion might smell like too much triple sec. A first date hookup where exactly one participant believed there may be a second date felt to Crowley’s tongue like standing too close too long to a bonfire until your throat closed.

What Crowley smelled here had no such poetic attributes. It was like straight-up cat piss. Although, if one wanted to be poetic, they could lie and call that Sauvignon Blanc. It did not matter what one called it. The smell was shame.

Few things are shameful in and of themselves. What splinters one person’s soul might be a good Friday night to someone else. So it wasn’t that the smell of shame was inherent to glory holes. The ones at this particular establishment had become acrid with decades’ worth of the specific soul scent of men who hated themselves for wanting to be sucked off by other men, or for wanting to do the sucking. And then like calls to like, and the very fabric of reality in such a space becomes twisted with self-loathing, like roots of a petrified tree as time goes by.

Crowley wretchedly wanted to impale himself on the rock-hard spikes of that self-loathing.

He’d already had a few (too many) drinks at the bar. The barkeep, as always, continued to pretend to not know why he was there. But there was a tinge of disgust flavoring the air around him, and the taste urged Crowley on. His vision had become watery under the dark glasses. Crowley threw down some pounds on the bar, and as he rose slowly to his feet, he looked coolly from table to table, pausing for a moment on any man who met his gaze. That was the trick of it, along with the walk, but Crowley never needed to change a thing in his movements as he strutted toward the men’s room.

Crowley selected a stall and sat waiting, and he trembled as he did. He had nothing to fear from any human. But the terror was always the same, and it was this: if Crowley did not actively Tempt anyone, would anyone even want him for _this?_

He wanted to be wanted. He could settle for this, being a wanted thing, a useful object. He wanted to be useful. He was giving back to the race from which he was meant to take. Someone would be putting his sarcastic scowling mouth to purpose. Someone would be shutting him the fuck up before he could say the wrong thing. He wouldn’t have to say the wrong thing. He wouldn’t even have to think.

He just had to be good.

Crowley froze to the sound of thuddy footsteps, moving with careful intention toward the stall that shared the wall with the round hole at Crowley’s eye level, about the width of a fist and padded all around with brown packaging tape. There were Sharpied words on the wall beside it: _Mike West gives head like a demon._

__

__

_Not fucking likely,_ Crowley thought. 

Crowley’s heart took it upon itself to pound as a fly on khaki-colored trousers came into view.

The stranger in the other stall coughed once while giving the faintest rap on the wall by Crowley’s head. So he was polite, Crowley acknowledged. A sort of consent sought, a silent language of, _you sweet skinny bottom, do you know what I’m about to do to your face?_

__

__

_Yes,_ Crowley thought, although no one had asked the question. _Please. Use my mouth._

Crowley liked the man’s strong walk. He liked the way he had knocked to be sure he had his attention. Most of all, he liked how he teased now, running his hand over the bulge before Crowley’s eyes. Crowley shifted, his own cock hardening against his leg as the man reached in the front of his trousers and stroked under the fabric. Distantly, Crowley noted that his mouth was watering.

 _“Please,”_ Crowley caught himself saying out loud.

This drew a gentle chuckle, as the man popped the button at the top of his fly. _“‘Please,’”_ he repeated quietly. “I like that. Say that again.”

Crowley didn’t hesitate for an instant. “Please,” he said, a little louder. The man, who could have been anyone, anyone at all _(it’s_ not _Aziraphale,_ the last rational part of Crowley’s mind warned him against telling himself _—it could be—it’s not—it could be …),_ drew down his zipper and let his gloriously thick meat spring out the top of black cotton briefs. He jerked slowly, spreading the slick with his thumb.

The man’s voice was low but soft. “Please what,” he prompted, not a question. “Beg.”

“Please let me suck your cock,” the words punched their way out of Crowley in a winded rush.

“Aw, what a good boy,” the man purred. “Are you a good boy?”

 _“Yes,”_ Crowley whimpered in a daze. _Call me good,_ he thought weakly.

“I thought so,” the man whispered. “You seem like a very good boy. Go on, babe,” he encouraged, feeding his cock through the hole, “show me how good you are.”

Shakily, Crowley fell to kneeling and let the tender head of the other man’s cock breach his mouth. He smiled at the noise the man made as he snaked his tongue around it, and hummed with pleasure as it hit the back of his throat. Crowley undid his jeans and freed his aching hard-on to the air before wrapping his nimble fingers around the base of the man’s cock, bobbing up and down on it.

“Fuck yes,” hissed the man on the opposite side of the wall. “Fuck, that’s good.” He slowly started to thrust in and out of Crowley’s hellishly hot mouth. Crowley relished the smooth skin gliding over his lips, and the scent that filled him now wasn’t sour shame at all but simply the musk of human sex. Swallowing cock to the hilt, Crowley dropped his hand to stroke himself.

Crowley ceased moving his head and kept it close to the hole, so that the man could gain all control and fuck his face in earnest. He listened as the unseen stranger’s breath grew ragged. There was something Crowley liked about not even having fists in his hair to help him behave—it was all on him to be still and take it. He played with his cock as an afterthought, his real focus on being a good fuck doll.

The man was breathing harder, picking up speed. Crowley thought he heard hands hit the wall where he might have braced himself. “What a good slut,” he groaned, slamming forward while Crowley willed himself to not be pushed back. Crowley couldn’t help but moan.

“Yeah?” the man panted. “Is that something you like, being called a dirty little slut?”

Crowley only made desperate, pretty noises around his mouthful.

 _Defile me,_ Crowley thought wildly, _(impossible, you’re already foul) degrade me (there’s no lower you could fall) …_ There were tears in his eyes as he pounded his fist.

“You perfect little cocksucking whore,” the man continued, more than happy to indulge this new development. “I’d fucking keep you, you know that? If I could—sweet little slut like you? With a tongue like that, fuck … keep you forever, use you all fucking day.”

Crowley was scrambling a little higher up on his knees to press his mouth even closer to the filthy wall. He knew he was whining, like a _dog,_ he didn’t care. He was close, he would shoot, right onto the floor, if he just, _don’t stop—talking, talking like that …_

“Let you _get_ used,” the man gritted out, “pass you the fuck around. Such a good slut, such a … like a poker chip, you know that? Would fucking _gamble_ you, trade you …”

Crowley stuttered into his palm, feeling hot spend spill down his fingers to splash under the wall between them.

“Look at that, you,” the man gasped, “so good— _you’re so good …”_

The stranger came, his cock stuffed so deep that Crowley (as would be true of any human _or_ demon) had no choice but to swallow reflexively.

Not that he wanted anything more than to swallow. He wanted to be good.

Crowley choked for breath he didn’t need as the man pulled back and could be seen to be tugging up his trousers. “That was,” the man started. “Thank you,” he said instead, and before Crowley was even back to his senses, he heard the swinging of the stall door and heavy footsteps quick and away.

Crowley rocked back to sitting, and kicked back to huddle between the wall and the toilet, and he stayed there for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
